The Parting Glass (Caitlin Ross Book 4) (28 page)

At some point, the sun came up and I let the fire die. I drank some water and poured the rest on the ashes.

I didn’t have many friends with kids. Most of my college mates who’d gone on to have families had dropped out of my network. Still, I had a few, and they all agreed on one thing. You couldn’t know. Before having a child, you simply could not appreciate how it would change your life. “If people waited until they were ready, no one would ever do it,” one of them had said.

Having a family of my own had always fallen into the nebulous category of things I’d look at “maybe someday.” Someday, if things worked out. Someday, if I found the right father. I’d always supposed the father would be involved.

But he wasn’t, and “maybe someday” had suddenly become “could be now.”

I thought about that while the morning passed. My life now was okay. More than okay. It was good. I was young—only twenty-eight—and healthy. I had a home and work I liked. I had some material advantages, and some immaterial ones as well. Although, my magic might not be much help in raising a child. The only thing I knew for sure was, if my child turned out gifted—and with Timber and me for parents, it seemed likely—I wouldn’t punish her for it.

Still. Having a child changed things. And I didn’t do well with change.

Then again, people also said you couldn’t comprehend the overwhelming love of a parent for a child until you had one. And love made all the difference.

I shook my head, noticing that the sun stood high overhead and I still hadn’t come to a decision.

Look at it the other way. If I were pregnant, could I
not
have the child?

Closing my eyes, I called up the image of the toddler with Timber’s eyes and hair, and wiped it out. Made it cease to exist. Erased it until I knew it had gone. Had never been. Would never be.

The pang of grief at the loss doubled me over. I clutched my belly, a sob erupting from my throat.

Well,
I thought after taking a minute to pull myself together.
I didn’t expect that.

I believed absolutely in choice. I had no question but that a woman was the only person who had the right to decide whether or not to carry and birth a child. Whatever her reasons.

It had never occurred to me that this was a choice I could not make. Not just because I had loved—did love—my hypothetical child’s father. But because I could not imagine wiping out a life, however tenuous the definition. A bundle of rapidly dividing cells was not a person. If that were so, cancer would be a person. But a fertilized egg was a
potential
person. And I could not, could
not
, bring myself to end that potential. It would break me.

So. There it was.

Nightfall found me waiting for Zee at the trailhead, my decision made. I still felt nervous, but I had found a little calm.

“You okay, Caitlin?” Zee asked when I got into the cab. He gave me a long, contemplative look, and I wondered if he had an idea why I’d gone on retreat in the first place. “You seem better. More grounded.”

“Yes,” I said. “Will you drop me at Lolita’s please? I have something to pick up, and I can walk from there.”

He drove me down the mountain and into town, not speaking. I could sense his mind working, though. And when he pulled up in front of the little grocery, before I could get out of the car, he laid a hand on my arm.

“Caitlin,” he said in a grave voice. “No one’s going to hear anything from me. I just want you to know that.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

I reclaimed my stuff from the back seat, went into Lolita’s, and bought an EPT kit, trying not to read anything into the cashier’s expression. Then I went home. In the morning, I’d know.

In the darkened showroom, I noticed the light on my answering machine winking at me. Someone had called. Sage probably. She hadn’t chewed me out in a week, and she’d be getting restless. I didn’t want to deal with her. Later would be time enough.

Upstairs, I left my purchase on the bathroom sink, ready. Then I went to bed and slept like a dead thing.

Chapter Twenty-Two

O
ne. One line. One pink line. Not two.

I was not pregnant. Not pregnant, just late. Just a cycle skipped for some mysterious reason.

I sat down on the toilet, shaking all over with unfathomable emotion. It might have been relief. It might have been disappointment. It might have been anything at all.

Lughnasadh, the second of August, celebrated the first harvest, the new grain, the baking of bread. But there would be no harvest for me this year. Nothing grew in me. I had no bun in the oven.

I started to laugh, a high, hysterical sound akin to howling. I couldn’t seem to stop. After a few minutes, McGuyver ran in to see what all the fuss was about. He stood up on his hind feet, his forepaws on my knee, and gave an inquisitive meow.

“It’s all right,” I gasped, reaching down to scratch his ears. “I’m all right, McGuyver. I’m all right.”

He settled down on the bathmat, not taking me at my word. His yellow eyes opened and closed. Once. Twice. I took a long, shuddering breath and blinked back at him.

“Okay, maybe not,” I allowed. “But I will be. Thanks.”

He curled up at my feet. I stayed on the toilet, the seat cold under my thighs; I hadn’t yet gotten dressed. Little by little, I calmed down.

When I no longer felt as if I might pass out, I went to the bedroom and got dressed. Jeans and a t-shirt, nothing fancy. I’d already decided not to open the store, excusing it with the holiday, although that wasn’t my real reason. I’d wanted to give myself time to cope with the test results. Of course, at the time I’d had a very different notion of how they’d turn out. Still. A day off wouldn’t hurt me. Maybe I’d rent a video. Sometimes on Lughnasadh, I baked bread. That particular activity didn’t seem at all appealing, however.

Back in the bathroom, I dumped the negative test and the paper cup I had peed in into the trash and set about brushing my teeth. I thought about Lughnasadh, about harvest time. About how harvesting implied cutting. Cutting the fruit from the vine, the grain from the ground. Cutting loose, cutting free. Gathering in, yes, but also clearing the way for new growth. Putting withered stalks in the compost where they’d transform into fertilizer for next year’s crop. Out with the old and in with the new.

It was time to cut myself loose from Timber MacDuff. We’d had what we’d had. And I’d become richer for it. I’d harvested joy, and passion, and pleasure. I knew myself better, had a better grasp of my abilities. The rest I had to let go. I might never find another man like him, one who fit me so well. Nothing said I had to find a man at all. Still, I could take what I had learned into the future. Into whatever new relationship might present itself.

I stared into the mirror, seeing his face. Hearing his voice say, “Be with me.”

Cursing, I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and dabbed at my teary eyes. Letting go was not going to happen all at once.

As I tossed the toilet paper in the trash, I heard the sound of bells. It confused me. Then I heard a door close. My door. My front door, with the bells strung on it. Someone had come into in my house.

McGuyver jumped up from the bathmat and bolted from the room.

Someone had entered my house. Someone had got past my wards and past the deadbolt. That meant skill, magical or criminal. Maybe both. I should have had a warning. Why hadn’t I had a warning? Crap. I could defend myself, but I had to get within range. What if the intruder had a weapon?

I snatched up the first thing I saw, the toilet plunger, ran down the hall, and charged down the stairs. I hadn’t got more than halfway when I spotted the intruder standing in my showroom and my legs gave out for the second time of the morning. I sat down hard on the fifth step.

Timber. Right there, big as life, backpack over his shoulder, canvas bag in his left hand, and in his right, of all impossible things, a sheathed broadsword.

“Gods, woman,” he spluttered at the sight of me. “D’ye never answer your fecking phone nae more? I’ve left a dozen messages. Ye scared me half tae death!”

I remembered the blinking light on my answering machine. Messages, huh? He’d left it rather late.

“Why do you have a sword?” I asked, hearing the eerie calm in my voice.

His eyes narrowed to wary slits; he’d heard it, too. “It’s a hobby.”

“A hobby,” I repeated in the same unnatural voice. I locked eyes with him, too enraged to do more than whisper. “You bastard.”

He winced under the epithet, and I lost it. I launched myself off the stairs at him, plunger flailing at his head, his shoulders, at any part of his miserable body I could reach.

“You fuckhead!” I shrieked. “You asswipe! You hypocritical cumsucker! You’re gone a month without a single word, and
you’re
upset because
I
didn’t answer my phone? Fuck you, you…you great, overbearing, manky Scots git!”

His reflexes hadn’t dulled any. Before I’d got in half a dozen hits, he dropped both bag and backpack and brought the sword up in an underhand defense against my plunger. It flew out of my hand and across the room, landing with a crash in the middle of the rune display.

“Clitlicker!” I screamed, undaunted. I hurled myself at him, fists beating at his chest. I didn’t care that he had muscles like rock and I’d almost certainly do more damage to myself than I did to him. I wanted to rip him apart.

“Cuntkicker! Douchebag! You filthy, smegma-covered scrotum! You putrid turd! I’ll give you a message, you…you… You fromunda stain!”

He grabbed my wrists. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, Caitlin. I can explain.”

“Explain?” I screeched.

He flinched. “Aye, I can. If you’ll let me.”

And then I fell into his arms. He held me sobbing against his chest while he stroked my hair and crooned at me.

“Hush, now. Hush. It’s all right. Gods, I should hae visited Mam first,” he added, which meant nothing to me.

“Jackass,” I sniffled, out of invective.

“Aye, I am. The biggest jackass ever tae walk the earth. And I deserve everything you’ve thrown at me.”

“You do,” I mumbled into his shirt.

“Aye, I do. I’d no idea you had such a vocabulary.” He tipped my face up and gazed at me with a grave expression in his eyes. “Mind, clitlicker isna much of an insult. It’s just true.”

Despite myself, I giggled.

“I wouldna blame you if you tossed me out on my ass,” he said. “But I’d like a chance to say… to tell you what happened. Will you give me that?”

I thought about it for a long time. I’d been ready to give him up and move on. It might have needed months, or even years. I’d have got over him in the end. But I was sure as shit not over him yet; the solace I felt in his arms told me so, if nothing else did. Accepting him back into my life would be easy. It would also entail risks I didn’t know if I wanted to take.

At last, I decided I owed him a hearing. For the sake of what we’d been to each other, if for no other reason.

“Okay.”

With a nod, he let me go and stooped to reclaim his belongings. He made a face when he picked up the sword, and for the first time I noticed the red, raw-looking spot on the back of his right hand.

“What’s that? Are you hurt?” No doubt he’d been in a fight, the jerk.

“This?” He raised his hand a bit, glancing down. “I’ll tell you about it in time. It’s part of the story, ken.”

I took him into the kitchen and set about filling the kettle for tea. It would give us something to do while Timber said his piece. He dropped his belongings in a corner and took a seat at the table. In short order, McGuyver arrived and jumped up in front of him.

“Aye, I’m a moron,” Timber told the cat, rubbing his furry head. “I’ve already heard it.”

I made a business of setting out mugs, warming a teapot and choosing something soothing. Chamomile and mint should do; we both needed it. When the water boiled, I filled the pot, set it on the table to steep, and took my own seat. I remembered drinking tea with Timber the first time we’d talked at any length. This time was an echo of that time, without a doubt. But would it herald a new beginning or an end?

“So,” I said. “Talk.”

He didn’t begin right away, but sat for a time, marshaling his thoughts.

“I didna mean to be gone so long,” he began. “And I didna mean to leave you without any word.”

“Then why did you?” I folded my arms across my breasts.

“Something came up. Several things. Och, this isna the right way to go about it. Let me start again.”

He poured tea for both of us and took a sip.

“I got to Portland on…the sixth of July, it would have been. I had some trouble finding rides, and it took me longer than I expected.”

I sipped my own tea and nodded. I’d suspected as much.

“I went straight to Mitch, thinking to get the business over. And the auld… Well, he hadn’t time for me right then, he said. He asked if I’d done what he sent me to do, and I said, ‘Ye damned cocksucker, I told you as much over the drum, and why did ye order me all the way back to Portland if that’s all ye wanted?’ He told me to go home and wait to hear from him. I still had the habit of obedience to him, and I went.”

“Why didn’t you call and let me know?” I persisted. I kept my face hard, although the notion of Timber calling his teacher a damned cocksucker made me want to grin. He didn’t lack nerve.

“Because my fecking phone had been disconnected, that’s why!” he growled. “I’d not paid the bill before coming here, and I didna expect tae be gone so long! I wouldna prevail on the neighbors for a long distance call, as I didna intend tae stay long enough tae pay them back. And the corner bar wouldna let me wager a game of pool on the call.”

“Oh.” I took another sip from my mug, somewhat mollified. So it hadn’t slipped his mind. Things had just…come up.

“So,” Timber went on, less indignant. “I fretted for two days. Then Mitch showed up, without any warning, mind, and ordered me into his truck. He took to some place in the Cascades, I dinna ken where, exactly, except there was a cabin and a stream. On the way up, he had the whole story out of me, of what we’d done here. I didna hand it to him without a fight—I was too angry with him—but he kept on about it until I gave in. He left me up in the mountains with a pile of bones and some shells. ‘Start fasting,’ he said. ‘And carving.’ Then he drove off.”

“Bones and shells?” I hadn’t intended to ask, but curiosity got the better of me, as usual.

“Aye.” Reaching into his shirt, Timber drew out a Soul Catcher, this one brand new. The bone gleamed white, and it had a delicate abalone inlay around the lions’ backs. It was unmistakably Timber’s own work. The carving style spoke less of the Pacific Northwest and more of heathery mountains and crashing seas.

“That’s beautiful,” I said, impressed.

“Aye, not bad for a pocket knife and some pine pitch.” He replaced the new talisman under his shirt. “Well, three or four days later—I ken it was the new moon, but I’d lost track of the exact time, what with the fasting and such—Mitch showed up again with half a dozen elders. They held a ceremony for me. I canna speak of it.”

I didn’t care about the details of the ceremony.

“He left you alone in the mountains without food for four
days
?”

Timber gave an eloquent shrug. “I’d done the like before. I had shelter, and plenty of water.”

“From a stream? It’s a wonder you didn’t get giardia.”

“Och, well. I’m strong, and I’ve not been sick much since I was a child.” His face darkened in a moment of memory; something about childhood illness troubled him, but he wasn’t quite sure whether he wanted to tell me about it. Then he met my eyes and plunged ahead.

“I almost died of meningitis when I was eleven. All the doctors, they’d given up. By the time they figured out what I had, they said, it was too late to do anything about it. Mam and Da took me home for my last days. And Mitch heard, and healed me. That’s how he knew I had an… aptitude for his kind of work.”

I sat back, stunned. Of course, I’d known it was common for people who received a shamanic calling to suffer some kind of serious illness. I’d just never put it together with Timber. And, I recalled, he’d still run away from home. What had that been about?

“At any rate,” he continued, his eyes clearing as he shoved the subject aside, “after the ceremony, Mitch dumped a couple sacks of food in the cabin, said, ‘You can eat now,’ and he and the elders left.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He rolled his mug between his hands, drawing my attention to the right one. He’d been marked on purpose, I saw now. Perhaps as part of an initiation of some kind. But he couldn’t speak of the ceremony, and he’d said his hand had a place in the story.

“I sat up there for perhaps another ten days, getting more and more…annoyed.” Something in Timber’s tone told me he’d chosen the mildest possible word for his mental state at the time. In a minute, he confirmed my guess with a smile. “Och, I was furious. I’d never been so mad in my life. What right did the auld bugger have tae keep me cooling my heels in the mountains when you were waiting for me, and had nae word? I all but tore the cabin down. And then I thought…I thought…”